


Just a Taste

by rickandmortysincave



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe, Androgynous Morty, Blood and Violence, Concerts, Drinking, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, No Smut, One Shot, Some Spanish, Spanish Rick, The Flesh Curtains, Underage Drinking, commission, flesh curtains rick - Freeform, rickmorty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickandmortysincave/pseuds/rickandmortysincave
Summary: Rick drags his counterpart along on yet another dangerous adventure. Morty learns that things don't always go according to plan.





	Just a Taste

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a commission I wrote for the very wonderful @theta1956q. Thanks for making this fic become a reality and thanks for all of the support. I couldn't have pushed myself to create this had it not been for you. ♡

            Morty is sitting on a stool that he’s pretty sure is covered in blood. There’s an alien couple in the corner doing what he assumes is their disturbing version of making out, and he’s pretty sure if he keeps gaping like an idiot he’s going to vomit out the entire contents of his stomach…as if the smell alone weren’t doing it enough for him.

            And yet here he is on a Friday night, dressed to the nines in tight clothing and platform shoes that raise his height by at least four inches. There have been a few times when he’s wondered why he does it. Too bad that they’re thoughts that can’t stick around long enough for him to think about. Rick has made sure of that, and Morty’s not even sure that’s he aware of it. If only he didn’t have to be so god damn charming all the time.

            The stage is already set, so the band is waiting to be announced in the back. Sometimes it makes Morty nervous, not being able to see Rick in an area this crowded. Rick has offered several times for Morty to hang with him backstage before the show, but Morty’s at least smart enough to know that if he sets foot behind the curtains, he’s going to have a hell of a time pushing through the crowd to get back out once the band starts. Their concerts aren’t exactly notorious for being peaceful gatherings.

            Morty would rather have the experience of being in the crowd anyways. There’s something mysterious and overwhelming about seeing Rick up there, detached from the world around him in a way that allows him to accomplish something that almost everyone around him can agree is extraordinary. That’s not something that Morty can experience from behind the scenes.

            Not that Rick hadn’t tried to his damnedest to persuade him, for all flirting intensive purposes. Morty swore it gave Rick a kick to have him act like one of his little groupies…the pervert.

            “Are you Morty?” comes a voice from behind the bar. He turns his head cautiously, hoping he’s not about get jumped by a crazy fan or a jealous ex…again.

            “Who-Who’s asking?” he stammers, hands balled into fists against his sides.

            “The bass player told me to give this to you,” an alien bartender shrugs, sliding a dark liquid across the counter toward him.

            “Oh!” God, he feels kind of stupid for being so paranoid. “Oh, thank you.”

            Morty examines the substance with a mild vigilance. It’s not really danger that he’s worried about. He knows that Rick would never hurt him. More so it’s about how quickly and thoroughly whatever this is is going to get him wasted. Rick may have a general concern for Morty’s wellbeing overall, but he and Morty’s liver are not on good speaking terms. What can Morty say? The guy likes to party. He makes it look so carefree that it’s hard to not want to join in.

            Regardless, Morty takes the drink. Between occasional school and traveling and the regular day in, day out of his surprisingly humdrum home life, he’s ready to let loose and have a good time. If he gets a little too drunk, then he at least knows that Rick will hold his hair back if he pukes. What a stand-up guy.

            The mic squeaks when the announcer adjusts it on stage, his beady eyes looking out excitedly at the crowd even when they cover their ears in protest. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He booms, the thunderous tone of his voice almost too much for the speakers to handle. “Now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…I present to you…The Flesh Curtains!” He cries spectacularly, giving a grandeur sweep of his arm toward the band when they appear from behind the curtains. The crowd immediately goes wild, screaming their enthusiasm until their voices reach the rafters. The band never fails to drum up an impressive amount of applause.

            Rick’s eyes immediately begin to sweep the crowd, like not having Morty in his direct field of vision is somehow more unsettling than he can bear to stand. It’s become a bad habit of both of theirs during every show to seek each other out, flirt silently from across the room like they’re not surrounded by hundreds of other beings, like it’s just them and nothing else beyond that really matters.

            At least, that’s the way Morty feels.

            He often thinks that he’s probably putting too much stock into it, thinking too deeply about their dynamic and the way the two of them truly feel about it. Too often he’s found himself overanalyzing the slightest of gestures, the smallest of words whispered between them. It’s starting to become one of the more distracting parts of Morty’s life…not that he’d care to admit it.

            Rick gives Morty a wink that makes his heart flutter a little in his chest, as if it’s not something that he’s witnessed a million times before. Rick is always making him feel like that, like every time they see each other it’s the very first time. Perhaps it’s a little too much sway to have over one person, but it’s not like Morty is exactly objecting. When you meet someone that makes every day feel like you’ve just won the lottery, you get used to the idea that you’d do pretty much anything they wanted if they willed it so. Perhaps that’s the exact reason why Morty is sitting in this bar.

             Birdperson gets real close to the mic like he always does, gaze filled with energy and passion and all of the other things that make him such a dynamic and interesting vocalist. The suspense for the opening song sends a dull hush over the crowd, each being directing their attention to the very stage where all of the magic is about to unfold. Morty idly wonders just how much they paid to get their foot in the door.

            Rick starts in with the familiar strums of his bass, rocking his head a little as he counts his beat. Squanchy joins in not soon after, the bang of his drums shaking the walls in a hypnotic sort of way that seems to draw the fans in every time. Sure, The Flesh Curtains are good in their music videos and albums, but it’s nothing compared to seeing them in person. Every movement, every beat, every lyric, it all sort of sinks into your skin and moves with your pulse, it’s rhythm becoming a part of your movements, of your thoughts. It’s the type of music that’s easy to get yourself lost in.

             And finally, when they get right into the heat of it, when they’re completely cast adrift on the waves of their own sound and really giving it their all, that’s when everyone, Morty included, completely loses it without fail. Rick is a gorgeous, sweaty mess, his eyes boring deep into his counterpart’s soul every time they draw each other’s attention, and Morty thinks he’s probably going to faint if it keeps going like this, like Rick’s gaze is enough to suffocate him right here and right now, and hell, it probably is. Moments like these never get old for Morty. These are the times when he feels closer to Rick than anyone else in the multiverse, like the entirety of Rick’s world is circling around on Morty’s own personal gravity. It’s the deepest sense of pride that Morty has ever felt.

            One of the most surprising things about these concerts is that the band puts out as much energy at the end as they do the beginning. It’s almost like clockwork, the way they’ll drown themselves in the moment to present nothing short of a spectacle for the audience. If Morty didn’t know what drugs were, he’d think it was an absolute miracle, the way they can jump around up there like pain and exhaustion are a thing of mysteries to them.

            The last chords of the song strum out on Rick’s guitar and the crowd absolutely erupts, shouting and shaking their friends beside them as if they might have fallen asleep during something so perfectly glorious. It’s the exact reaction that Morty has seen at least a hundred times before. He has about three minutes before all of this excitement turns into total anarchy. That’s usually his que to retreat.

            The lights backstage are so dim that Morty can barely see his own feet. If everything in his path during the day is already an obstacle course, then this is the Mt. Everest of Clumsyville.

            Luckily, there’s a non-metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel in the form of an open dressing room. Morty can already hear Rick and his friends celebrating another concert well done (the smug bastards). Either all of their hearing has decreased significantly since they became a band, or they truly and honestly do not give a fuck about just how loud they are about eighty percent of the time.

            Morty checks his appearance in a mirror outside the door before taking a deep breath and stepping inside, shoving a strand of hair behind his ear as he seeks Rick out among the small crowd that’s gathered for the early after party.

            Unfortunately, with or without hearing, Rick is the one with the better eyesight. He surprises Morty from behind, rough hands grabbing him like a vice on the ribs. And Morty, like an idiot, jumps ten feet into the air and screeches in protest, preparing a jab to Rick’s groin before he realizes who it is. He really should start relaxing more.

           “What’s wrong, _cariño_? Did I jumpstart your heart?” Rick laughs.

           “Not funny,” Morty chides, sticking his tongue out in retaliation. Rick bites it for good measure.

           “So, what did you think of the show? Did we do good?”

           Morty rolls his eyes. Rick is always asking this question, and Morty is always giving him the same answer. He’s pretty sure that Rick is just doing it at this point because he knows that Morty is going to tell him exactly what he wants to hear. “Of course you did good. You always do good.”

           “I know,” Rick grins. “This show was pretty killer. Did you see that one guy punch that other one in the face?”

           “Rick, there were like twenty-five different guys punching each other in the face in front of the stage alone.”

           “I mean, ‘Riot’ _is_ a song about punching everyone you know in the face.”

           “Really? What made you think so? When Birdperson sings, ‘punch your entire family in the face’ or ‘punch your local mailman and your best friend’s pastor in the face’?” Morty teases.

            Rick wraps his long arms around Morty’s middle and pulls him over to a vacant corner. “It never tells you to punch your _amor_ in the face, so I think you’re safe.”

            Morty leans into Rick naturally, looking up at him from underneath his heavy lashes. “Does that mean I can’t punch you i-in the face?” He smirks.

           “Not unless you want to,” Rick says sincerely, intertwining their hands between them. Morty tries to remember how to breathe.

           “I wouldn’t.”

           “Are you sure?” Rick asks mischievously, presenting his cheek to Morty for a beating that’s quite obviously never going to come. Morty shoves him away playfully.

           “You couldn’t handle one of my punches,” he promises.

           “Maybe not, _cariño_ ,” he agrees. “Maybe not.”

-

            They’re on pit stop one out of god only knows how many on their way to the after party. For some reason Rick usually realizes that he needs to do things only _after_ he’s done a full show, and so he usually he totes Morty around the galaxy to run stupid little errands like pulling out cash from the ATM or buying drugs from some shady guy on a planet that always smells like lilac before they actually get to the party itself…not that Morty really minds.

            “We have to-to get more liquor!” Rick declares a little drunkenly as he throws the driver’s side door of the ship open. Morty decides that tonight was probably not the night to bust out a brand-new pair of shoes.

            “I never thought I’d see the day when _you’d_ run out of liquor, but miracles are happening every day, I guess,” Morty sighs.

            Rick pulls Morty in close by the shoulder and points at a tall building cast in shadow. It’s exactly the type of place that screams, ‘don’t come anywhere fucking near me unless you want to get shot’.

            “There’s a-a-a storehouse in that building, Morty. A whooole storehouse filled with the tastiest, most expensive liquor on this entire planet. And you and I are going to take it.”

            “I’m assuming that this is liquor that we don’t own.”

            “Not yet,” Rick grins wickedly.

            “Rick, I don’t think that this is such a-a good idea,” Morty admits, shuffling his feet nervously on the gravel.

            “Morty, Morty, have I ever let you get hurt?” Rick asks.

            Morty scratches absently at his arm and tries to think of a rebuttal to that question. He doesn’t feel surprised when he comes up short. “Not yet.”

            “ _¡Y esta noche no es la noche!_ ” Rick cries valiantly. “Let’s go get some booze!”

            On a list of poor decisions that Morty has made in his life, this one is definitely high on the totem pole. It’s not that he and Rick haven’t done dangerous things together before, and it’s not that they haven’t gone uncommonly well in the past, but what it does to Morty in the moment isn’t exactly what many experts would consider good for the nerves. No wonder he’s so god damn jumpy all the time.

            “Rick,” Morty whispers as he follows him through unsavory back alleys. “Do you e-even know where the hell you’re going?”

            “Do you think I go into these things w-without any plans?” Rick asks defensively. “Have a little faith, _cariño_.”

            Hiding skepticism is not one of Morty’s strong suits. “Faith in what, exactly?”

            “The magic of _science_ ,” Rick exclaims flamboyantly, waving his arms in a dramatic fashion before withdrawing a small disk from his pocket and flinging it at the wall in front of them.

            “What’s that going to—holy shit!” Morty cries as the ground beneath him is rocked by a thunderous explosion that blows a hole the size of a car through the layers of brick in the wall. With Rick’s flair for the melodramatic, it’s a wonder that Morty _hasn’t_ been hurt on one of their adventures.

            “Notice that it was an inward explosion,” Rick notes cockily, nudging Morty in the shoulder a little bit for emphasis. “Couldn’t get any debris on that pretty skirt of yours.”

            “I’m understandably a-a-a little more concerned right now with the fact that you-you just blew the brick wall out of a fucking building!”

            Rick shrugs nonchalantly and begins towing Morty into the storehouse with him, whistling as he pulls out a laser gun from his back pocket and aims it into the dark. “Come out to play, _bastardos_! _¡Sé que me oíste!_ ”

            “ _Rick_ ,” Morty whispers anxiously. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

            “No, Morty,” Rick sighs. Morty doesn’t need light to know that Rick is already rolling his eyes. “I’m quite-quite obviously trying to get other people killed, y’know, by shooting them?”

            “ _That’s_ your plan?”

            “Should there have been more explosions?”

            “No!”

            Rick stops suddenly in his tracks and pushes Morty behind him, scanning the darkness for lurking enemies. Things seem too eerily quiet for his liking, and if there’s one thing that he doesn’t like playing in these scenarios, it’s games…especially not when Morty is involved.

            “Hang back a second, _cariño_. Something’s off.”

            No sooner are the words out of Rick’s mouth than the room is being flooded with a spectacular light, so bright that the two of them have to shield their eyes to keep from going temporarily blind.

            “Rick Sanchez!” Booms a convivial voice from somewhere above. “I would have hoped that if you were going to rob me blind, you would have at least had the decency to do it at a more appropriate time of day…not in the middle of the night like a _rat_.”

            “Well, you know me. I’d rather be a rat than a fucking idiot who-who robs my enemies in the daylight out of common courtesy.”

            As Morty’s eyes adjust he can see that the voice belongs to a rather enthusiastic looking blob of an alien with a fat, burning cigar protruding from the oval of his mouth. He looks like the very definition of one of those psychotic, overweight mob bosses that you see in the movies, eyes full of bloodlust and thoughts full of violence. Great. Just what Morty needs to kick off his weekend.

            “Very well,” the alien agrees jovially, tapping the butt of his cigar on the railing beneath him. Morty watches as the ash floats to the ground, swirling in delicate patterns that almost remind him of snowflakes. “You can have whatever you want…if you can take it.”

            “Rick, can’t we just, I-I don’t know, go to the liquor store?”

            To his credit, Rick does look a little torn at the plea. “Sorry, Morty, but you know what they say. Once you blow-blow a hole through someone’s storehouse wall, _no hay vuelta atrás_.”

            “Who says that!?”

            “Smart people like me. Now relax, I’ll get us out of here soon, _cariño_. And when you try the stuff that I’m gonna score, you’ll definitely thank me later,” Rick promises.

            “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Morty scoffs.

            “More like when you taste it. Now get behind me.”

            “I’ll give you one more chance to turn around and pretend that this never happened,” the mob boss offers. The look on his face says that he’s hoping for just the opposite.

            “The day I start taking orders from oversized Play-Doh creations is the day that I give up completely. And I’m not giving up, Florva. I want that liquor, and I’m going to-to pry it from your cold, silly putty hands.”

            "Alright then," Florva grins. "Guards! First one to give me Sanchez's head gets a fat bonus at the end of the month."

            From behind mountains of crates come at least thirty armed sentinels, guns trained on Rick and at the ready. Morty has to swallow the little bit of nervous bile that travels up his throat.

            Rick, of course, shoots the first few that descend upon him with graceful ease, pulling Morty tight against his back. And even though it feels kind of stupid, and Morty knows that the situation is probably more dire than the two of them are willing to admit, he can't help but feel a little intoxicated by Rick's scent, by the warmth that seems to emanate off of him whenever the two of them are near, like Rick is his own, personal sun and Morty has gone without heat for much too long.

            "Close your eyes and cover your ears," Rick advises, even though Morty has seen more violence and viscera in his lifetime than most men see in the bloodiest of wars. He's always trying to protect him in little ways like that, like he can't help but not want to keep Morty a little less corrupted by his own wrongdoings. Morty guesses it's probably a subconscious shield that he holds over him, more of a mindless desperation to protect Morty than an actual desire to remove him from the situation. He may be an idiot, but he's a damn careful one. These are the kinds of moments when Morty knows that Rick truly cares the most.

            Another explosion goes off in the distance, and even with his ears covered it evokes that troublesome ringing that Morty can never seem to completely get out of his head. At least it's far enough away to know that it came from their side.

            Morty can feel the muscles tense in Rick's back as he fires off into the crowd of guards, can hear the bodies hit the ground with solid thuds that he always tells himself not to think about too much, lest he want to spend the rest of his days in an existential crisis.

            "Almost done, _cariño_ , I just have to─"

            And suddenly Rick has become much to heavy, falling backwards against Morty like he can't support his weight on his own. Morty has to use all the strength in his body to keep them from both falling in a tangled heap on the ground. This is when he opens his eyes.

            "Rick?"

            But Rick isn't answering, just breathing shallowly, teeth clenched as he crushes the both of his hands to the side of his abdomen. Morty doesn't want to process it, doesn't even want to think that this scenario is becoming reality, but here it is, right in front of his face: Rick has been shot. With only two guards left standing, it's a fight or flight situation. For once, for Rick, Morty is going to have to choose fight.

            "Morty..."

            "Give me your gun, Rick," Morty demands, his eyes set with the sort of bloodlust that's reserved for serial killers and the truly disavowed. Rick immediately opens his mouth to protest, but Morty isn't having it. Not now. Not when both of their lives are so clearly in danger. "Please," he pleads, hands clasped over Rick's as the guards begin to close in. "Just let me do this for you."

            It's a hard decision to make, whether or not Rick should give Morty the ability to kill on his behalf. Morty wants this, Rick can see it in his face, the way the anger and the worry sit so apparent that it's pushed him to the point of wanting so badly to protect his lover, to protect the one person who has yet to fail him. But is it worth it? Is _he_ even worth it?

            Rick doesn't want to give him the gun. He knows in his head that it's probably the wrong choice, probably not the smartest split-second decision that he could possibly make, knows that he could probably find another way...so why is he giving in? Why is he giving Morty the gun, placing his finger firmly over the trigger, and giving him a look of absolute trust and devotion? Why is he suddenly going against all the things that he knows in his heart are the exact opposite of what he truly wants?

            Three shots ring out in the moments of blackness that lapse over his memory, distinctive and in order, one, two, three along with the rapid beating of his heart. There's a tense moment of silence after that, a quiet minute where Rick isn't sure who the victor is, whether Morty has succeeded or failed miserably and, in return, allowed Rick to fail him.

            But then he hears it, that slow release of breath next to his ear when Morty says, "I-I did it, Rick," and Rick laughs in all of his pain and delirium, pulls Morty close to him and presses a kiss to his brow.

            "Maybe I couldn't handle one of your punches after all," he chuckles.

            Morty responds in kind by pressing a bottle of liquor into Rick's palm, his smile triumphant. "No," he agrees, feeling overwhelmed with Rick's trust for him, with his willingness to allow Morty his desires. "I guess you really couldn't."

-

            "A medi-pack?" Morty asks.

            "'Yeah, Morty, i-it's─it heals injuries," Rick explains, rubbing achingly at his side as the patch closes the wound. "But it's not half as good as that shit that you're holding in your hand. Let's crack that baby open and start celebrating!"

            "We've definitely earned it," Morty sighs as he hands Rick the bottle."Turn on the radio?"

            Rick gives Morty a look. "Don't always think you'll get what you want, okay, _cariño_?" Rick says as he turns on the radio anyways.

            A song hums out from the speakers as Rick opens the bottle, it's lyrics meaning something just a little different to Morty. ' _There's_ _nothing wrong with just a taste of what you've paid for'_. Hell, that should their motto.

            "To not dying and scoring free booze," Rick cheers, taking a long drink from the bottle before he hands it off to Morty.

            After what they just went through, Morty's taking that drink without question. He'll probably be taking many, many drinks without question tonight.

            "To all of that shit and a bunch of other stuff too," he shrugs.

            And he has to say, Rick didn't lie when he said that this stuff would be worth it (at least before he got shot). The first two gulps put Morty exactly where he wants to be, feeling air-light and happy. And really, what isn't there to be happy over now that the stress of the situation is just a distant memory? The two of them are alive and closer now because of it. Morty knows that Rick trusts him more than he originally thought, and hey, being drunk isn't hurting too much either.

            Morty loves Rick despite him putting them in dangerous positions. Rick loves Morty despite knowing that he has him wrapped around his little finger.

            What else is new in the multiverse?


End file.
